


Catra's Emotional Support Lizard

by CabbageCommander



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Disassociation, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentioned Adora (She-Ra), Mentioned Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Deceptive Roleplay, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-01-23 01:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabbageCommander/pseuds/CabbageCommander
Summary: Their new boss makes some very specific requests of Double Trouble.They agree and find themselves in their most demanding role yet: Catra's Therapist.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Title and summary are misleadingly upbeat.*Involves DT and references to preseason released information but will not include spoilers for S4.
Comments: 38
Kudos: 209





	1. Swearing at Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Everybody else: Sad Catra asking DT to be Adora.  
Me: This.
> 
> New tags will come with each chapter, I've promised myself I will not actually watch S4 until I finish since I already know I'm flying the OC flag pretty hard.
> 
> On with the show!

Mismatched eyes scrutinize every detail of the doppelgänger’s disguise.  
They can understand it of course. They are a perfectionist themselves, but the intensity of the feline’s gaze makes their normally cold blood run colder. Catra is nothing short of scathing with her reviews, if not downright nasty when the details are not perfect. This particular performance is the most demanding one their current employer has asked for and the level of precision required is excruciating.  
Double Trouble scrutinizes back, looking for any response from their silent audience of one. The longer time draws out, the more she gives. Fluffy ears flicking twice, before flattening. Tail twitching with interest then stilling in half raised curiosity. Drawn eyes, pinched with consideration, falter. They see the flash of something like longing and they take their chance, approaching as if they were approaching a cornered animal, one that could very easily tear out their throat.  
The voice is a performance all its own. They imagine the warm burn of whisky running down their throat and their imitation flows just as smooth. “Catra,” The hard K sound rolling into the trilling ‘tr’ alone has taken hours of practice.  
The feline’s breath hitches; ears, tail, eyes, all become alert, fully embodying the skittish animal awaiting a predator’s next move. It is a gratifying sight, just what they’d been looking for.  
They raise a hand, brush slim fingers over the red diamond emblazoned on a black sleeve. With their mouth and eyes obscured they must convey their pleasure in the low, rich tone of their voice. “You’ve done so well. Better than I could have ever imagined.”  
A clawed hand clamps around their outstretched wrist before they can take it back.  
When they look up Catra’s ears have flattened back, her eyes are foggy and uncertain, she wets her lips before catching her bottom one between her fangs. If anything, this feverish, hesitant Catra is more terrifying than a triumphant or angry one. Those sides are predictable, this one is new, and utterly volatile.  
She nods, slowly, “That’s-That’s right. I have...” A flash of defiant anger lights up her eyes and her uncertainty disappears. Her grip becomes vicelike. “I run the Horde now.”  
They nod, let their arm go limp. There is another flicker in the mismatched eyes that stare them down. “You do.” A well-timed disappointed sigh follows. It draws the exact reaction they are looking for, a falter in the feline’s façade of ego, confusion. The vice grip loosens, and they are able to slip their hand free and lay it against the girl’s fuzzy cheek, rubbing their thumb gently back and forth beneath her wavering blue eye. “I was foolish to ever doubt you.”  
Catra’s eyes remain fixed on their covered face, even as she leans her head unconsciously into their hand. They can feel her jaw working as she fights to respond and can see the sputtering anger trying and failing to build in her eyes. It dies entirely after a moment, losing to yearning the longer the gentle hand remains stroking her cheek. “Will you stay now?”  
They waver, their own breath catching in their chest as the feline’s brows draw together. It is the most innocent look they’ve seen on their boss’s face, utterly taken with the fantasy. It’s all pleading, needy, heartbreak and they are not entirely sure if it is their performance or her own imagination that she is taken with.  
It is a reminder to them that despite the ruthlessness they have come to expect from her on the battlefield and over the war table, she is still a heartbroken child desperate for her piecemealed family to be returned to her.  
“I will stay. At least for a little while,” they respond. They move and settle onto the horde commander’s bed with their back against the wall and she follows them with her eyes. Once they are comfortable, they wait expectantly, but she remains standing.  
They pat the bed beside them. “Sit with me.”  
She moves carefully, as if they will disappear if she moves too fast. Behind their mask they chew their tongue, utterly unprepared to deal with this response. It is not in their nature to comfort others or to break character, but this is utterly pitiful. The proud horde commander sinks into the bed beside them, timid and skittish.  
They take the lead and guide the magicat’s head to lay in their lap, removing her mask and stroking their fingers through her mane. It takes a moment but each time their fingers move through her thick, dark hair, little by little, the tenseness dissolves; until Catra curls herself close and utterly relaxed into the side of their legs, one arm thrown over their thighs.  
A slow, rolling purr builds in the girl’s chest, filling the nearly silent room.  
They watch and they wait, and they stroke the feline’s mane until their hand is numb.  
And when Catra is finally blissfully asleep, they shift into their true form and curse the shadows themselves.


	2. The Obvious One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of course she'd ask them for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeh, yeh, yeh, there’s an Adora chapter.
> 
> On with the show!

They suppose this one was inevitable.

Frankly, they were surprised it was not the first request she made, but it was bound to happen. It’s almost boring, really. But the barely concealed happiness in the blue and gold eyes that survey the disguise is hard to ignore. Their masquerades so rarely make others happy, more often they are to blend in and disappear, to spy or get away. This is different and they can’t say it’s not enjoyable to use their powers to make someone happy for at least a little while.

Once she seems satisfied with the view before her the mismatched gaze finds theirs.

It’s heartbreaking, the sheer number of emotions they find swimming in her eyes. Happiness, sadness, anger, regret, the cloudy underlying knowledge that this is all a huge self-deception, all work their way across the feline’s face.

“Hey, Catra.” They are careful to let the end of her name trail off breathlessly.

“Hey -,” her voice fades into a strangled squeak, as the words are caught in her throat. She swallows and chokes again.

It is an interesting contrast, having seen her on the battlefield against Adora and now this.

They watch her mouth work empty air, her sharp tongue failing her.

They tilt their head curious and amused, “What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?”

It gives her something to bite back at, “Shut up.” She responds, nose wrinkling in disgust at the lame joke but she is smiling despite herself and they grin triumphantly back.

Slowly she lets her warring emotions fade, settling into the façade she is presented with. They are unprepared for the bittersweet look that takes shape in her eyes. They know exactly how to play this from the look alone.

“I missed you.” They start, moving closer to her, reaching out and taking her hands, running their thumbs over her knuckles.

Her gaze drops to their joined hands. Hers remain limp in their grasp, neither reciprocating nor pulling away. Her voice is watery, when she responds, “I know, dork.”

They draw one hand up to her face and cup her cheek, drawing her eyes to theirs and their goofy, lopsided grin.

She searches their assumed face for a long quiet moment before ducking her head and rubbing her face into their neck. She presses close, hooking her arms under theirs and up to grasp their shoulders. They settle one of their hands into her thick mane and the other at her waist.

In this position one of her ears is conveniently close to their mouth, and having naturally sensitive ears themselves, they can’t resist the opportunity afforded to them. Their breath tickles the fine, wispy hairs and makes her ear twitch as they whisper, “I’ll stay now. I promise. I’m sorry.” Each empty platitude works its magic until a relaxed, purring magicat is pressed flush against them.

“I’m sorry too,” they feel her warm breath on their neck more than they hear the words spoken. It contrasts with the cold, wet spot growing on the shoulder of their shirt but they don’t comment. It seems this act is harder for her to indulge and all the more painful for it.

“Come to bed, kitten.” They are well aware the line is out of character but here accuracy is for form not behavior.

Against their legs they feel her tail lash and her purr turns into a chirp of agreement. She nods into their shoulder, and they consider for a moment carrying her to bed until she pulls back and looks them in the face. The fine fur on her cheeks is matted with tears and runs the wrong way from rubbing against their shoulder. Their hands find her cheeks and smooth the damp fur back into place and she gives them that heartbroken smile.

Her claws trail down their arms stirring goosebumps in their wake as their hands are joined again, this time of her accord, and they allow her to lead them to the bed. They see her bite the corner of her lip in thought, eyes flickering to the foot of the bed.

It takes her a moment, to shift onto her own bed and they watch carefully. She moves as if to curl up, before forcing herself to roll to her back. There is a small, glimmer of fear in her eyes at the position and they know why. The position is a vulnerable one for her, all the softest, most sensitive parts of her body are exposed this way. The mask they wear may be the face of an old friend, but beneath the façade is someone still new. There is a certain level of intimacy she has already gifted them with to even allow this moment to happen and they are careful to respond with the same level of care.

They take their place beside her slowly, slipping an arm around her waist and allowing her room to shift into the comfortable, familiar body beside hers. Her face finds their neck again and she takes in a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh that trails off into a steady purr once more.

As the feline’s breathing evens out into their neck they shift into their proper form and try to ignore the sympathetic ache in their chest when the feline’s arms tighten around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do most of these end in sleeping? Because that’s usually what I do after emotionally trying events and it was the only thing I could think of!   
‘Catra is going to put herself through massive amounts of emotional trauma in a controlled environment with a safe person, what happens? Nap time.’


	3. Broken Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra has a talk with herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicidal Behavior. No idea if it will be a problem for anyone. It was a problem for me while writing so... forewarning.
> 
> On with the show!

“Don’t talk.”

This is new.

They cock a brow but shrug and go along with it. She takes her time evaluating. This is a more comfortable visage than most that she has asked for - one of the first they ever put on display for her after all and time has only given them more to work with - but the first time they’ve been told to be quiet.

“Strip.”

This is also new.

Their nostrils flare and they lock eyes with her, wordlessly conveying how bad an idea it would be for them to follow the command.

There’s a flash of anger across the magicat’s face when her order is not immediately obeyed but it fades with recognition as she seems to understand the reason for their hesitance. The feline closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath through her nose.

She starts with her black sleeve and harness, unbuckling the clasps that hold it together and letting it fall. In its wake the fur on her arms and shoulders clumps with sweat. Their eyes widen as piece by piece falls away and soon, they are left staring down a very naked magicat.

This is… very new.

They see the discomfort writ clear across Catra’s face and wonder absently just how many eyes have had the privilege of this sight, before taking to the implied task. They study every inch from top to tail, even those pieces they have become familiar with.

They remap her face, tracing the spread of freckles beneath the brassy tones of the fine fur across her cheeks. Her eyes refuse to meet theirs even as she stands head on with them, knowing it is the best way for them to take in their intended form. The clear, turquoise blue of her left eye and the bright gold of her right have been one of their most difficult color studies, one they are not sure she can fully appreciate without the proper color receptors.

Her ears lay flat to her skull while her tail wraps around her waist and down one leg, both displaying her utter discomfort. On closer inspection all of her fur is standing on end, her body responding instinctively to the base emotion of distress by trying to appear bigger. It helps them in the long run, allowing them to see not only the zig zag of darker copper and bronze stripes wrapping around along her ribs and down her flanks but also the skin beneath and its litany of scars. They school their expression to be emotionless and analytical, there is no need to make the feline more uncomfortable by displaying the grimace they feel seeing the branching lightning pattern of knotted scar tissue that skates beneath tawny fur.

They take note on where her fur thickens, where it transitions in color, of the tear drop of creamy white that starts from below the bottom of her sternum and covers most of her stomach. As their eyes move lower her tail lashes irritably against her calf but she remains silent and otherwise still under the observation.

They wonder what she will do once they take on her form completely when she can’t stand her own eyes on her now.

The rest of their inspection goes relatively quickly from this side, learning the missing pieces of pattern along her legs and how her fur thickens slightly between them and thins at the tops of her feet in the same way it does on her hands. They twirl a finger and her lip curls visibly to display her displeasure at the silent order, but she obeys and turns around. This is the most power she’s let them have in these meetings and they haven’t said a word.

Her movements are stilted as she shifts the bulk of her mane over one shoulder and watches them over the other.

Their eyes trace down the dark, grey-brown fur that runs the length of her spine to become her tail, noting where the fingers of her stripes begin and how they fade from one color to another. The thicker, darker fur leaves them unable to see the scars that wrap around her ribs and back, and they are left with a dilemma. Without being able to see them, they will need touch to replicate the marks.

They reach out a hand to indicate their intentions. Over her shoulder her blue eye widens and her nostrils flare as she takes in a sharp breath before giving them an imperceptible nod and schooling her features into a careful, suspicious look.

They take time as they approach to shed bits of their clothes, remaking their form in the image of the one they are presented with. Only these last details remain. The magicat’s flesh breaks out in goosebumps almost as soon as the pads of their fingers find skin; it draws the thick fur to stand on end even more but they must still explore, tracing scar tissue as they find it and making a mental map of all the webs and branches. Scars from magic, scars from weapons, scars from claws. They find them all and imprint them on their own body beneath their tunic for when they step away and strip.

She grabs their wrist as they move to pull away. “There’s…more.” She says in a quiet, listless monotone. No longer looking over her shoulder. She is staring straight ahead and if it weren’t for the way her tail hangs still and rigid between them, they would have no gage for the discomfort she is feeling.

They allow her to lead their hand around her front and down along the inside of her leg. The surprise of it catches them off guard and they are glad she is no longer looking at them because they are sure it flashes across their face until they feel the thin lines, she has led them to. Their other hand hesitates before moving slowly, deftly tracing the inside of her other thigh to find similar lines. They take enough time to internalize location and shape but are careful not to overstay the welcome they’ve been given.

When they have released her and reestablished breathing room between them, they shed the last of their clothes and let the scars and stripes they have so studiously mapped take their place.

“Was that enough for you?” She snaps, shoulders hunching and arms crossing over her chest. Where her hands grasp her ribs aligns with a constellation of pinprick scars and they grimace at the action with understanding but school the expression away.

She turns around, face screwed into a snarl, ready to lash out at them for not responding, until she is met with a carbon copy of herself. She stills warily. Blue and gold eyes trace each stripe and scar in turn just as carefully as they had.

They keep their own gaze restricted to her face, looking for response, only peripherally tracking the rest of her body language to gage what is about to happen.

Catra’s investigation goes from critical to searching and finally she looks herself in the eyes. The magicat’s brows are drawn down, her eyes swim with hurt and confusion and so much anger, it takes their breath for a moment and they brace for what is about to happen.

They are surprised when she slinks closer to them, hurt, confused, angry gaze holding theirs. When she reaches out a hand they wince instinctively. They try to convince themselves it is an involuntary reaction of their own and not a learned response they have seen from her.

Her face twists into an ugly grimace, and her ears twitch irritably back and forth between standing to flattening. She finally seems to come to a decision and withdraws her outstretched hand, turning and pacing away, pausing now and again to look at them thoughtfully, angrily, curiously, as she does so.

They wait and they watch.

The feline finally stops, resolute, and turns to face them. Her glare is hard set, but they can see the cracks in her resolve in the way her eyes and brows tremble holding back tears.

“How much longer are you going to keep this up?” She looks for all the world like the question is meant to be angry but instead it comes out listless, tired, and broken.

She straightens up, brows drawn down in thought as she looks them over again, raking her eyes over her own body searching for some answer they aren’t sure she’ll find.

She meets their eyes again. “You never wanted this. This was Adora’s dream. You just wanted to not be here. To breathe air for five seconds and not feel like choking. And now look at you.” Her glare hardens, anger steels her voice, “You did all of this for nothing and now you’re miserable. Congratulations.”

They force a dull stare to hide their own surprise at the monologue.

“It was never about running the Horde or ruling the world. It was about getting recognition… doing it all with Adora, together…It was… about being safe.” The steel fails and she drops eye contact. “What are you even doing anymore? What have you become?”

They can’t help the curious swish of their tail, though they mask it with a critical, considering look. She takes a moment to center herself again before straightening and locking eyes with them.

“You’re a coward. Hiding at the top just like Hordak and Shadow Weaver. All your power is smoke and mirrors to hide the fact that deep down you’re scared of your own shadow.”

This is new.

For all the various people she has had them replicate, their self-destructive roleplay normally draws upon her need for approval or forgiveness or comfort. It is an escape from all the harsh realities of her actions, but not tonight.

Her expression is the blank, disaffected mask she uses when twisting her claws into someone’s weak points. “Your family, whoever they were, left you. Adora, Shadow Weaver, they left and _came back_ for _other people_ but not you. You sent Entrapta away. Hordak will abandon you as soon as he knows that and that you lied to him again. And if she ever grows a braincell Scorpia will leave you too.”

They frown, allow the show of cautious curiosity to form. They can hear the tremor in her voice and feel the unease in their gut telling them to brace for what comes next. They see the muscles in her jaw clench as she tries to put her thoughts into words.

“And you know what?” her voice quivers, her next words just above a whisper. “If I could leave you behind too I would.”

Their ears swivel and perk, fully alert now. The uneasy feeling turns over in their stomach and their eyes narrow.

She pauses, looks down and away from them. “I – I could still do that. Couldn’t I?” She can’t seem to stop herself after that, everything comes spilling free. “It can’t be that hard? Everyone else has left, why can’t I?” A bitter smile that is less of a smile and more of a gritting of teeth crosses her face, “No more fighting for nothing. No more of this bullshit war. No more sides. It wouldn’t be running away, just letting go. Like in the other world…” the distance in her eyes grows. “I was so ready to be done with it all. That portal… was the best thing to happen to me.” Her eyes are unfocused and clouded with tears. “I thought it would all just end, and then… everything was perfect. Adora was back. Shadow Weaver was… kind? Everything was right…” she makes a choking sobbing noise that hurts their chest to hear. “And everything still went wrong. She still left. Even in a perfect world I wasn’t a good enough reason to stay.” Her words trail off into a whisper. “If I had just let that Nothing swallow me whole…I would have been so much better off… I could still do it…”

The ice in their veins is not from their naturally cold-blooded nature. They approach her carefully, force her to catch their eye and look them in the face. They don’t bother staying quiet, speaking in a hard, authoritative voice that gives her no room to lie or fight, “Boss…” They start before thinking better of it, “Catra.” They force her to face down the mirror she’s had them create. “Are you thinking about killing yourself?”

The magicat’s face runs through emotions fast enough to make their head spin, they can’t imagine what the turmoil in her own head is like.

“No?” It’s not a statement, as if she is unsure of the answer herself. They can almost hear the gears clicking in her head as she tries again. They give her the out and let her look down and away from them. “Maybe? Yes? I just…” she catches her breath, pauses, starts again. “I’m just tired. Of fighting, and losing, and lying, and… everything. I’m tired of everything and nothing helps. I’m at the top of the world and it doesn’t feel any different than before, it feels worse.” She frowns, scowls at them, “why the hell am I telling you any of this?”

They reach out, stroke her mane back behind her ear, “Because as hard as you’ve been trying to you can’t actually lie to yourself.” They set a hand on her shoulder and are pleasantly surprised, though they hide it, when she follows them to sit on the floor. They are glad for the cushion of fur between them and the hard steel as they sit.

They aren’t completely sure where to go from here. They are used to this being a form of fantasy, giving the feline moments with those she loves that would be otherwise impossible.

This is raw and terrifying and…new.

They reach out and slide their hand to the now familiar fur beneath her blue eye, guiding her to look them in the face again. For a moment they are caught up in how surreal it all is, their disguise still firmly in place and voice mimicking the feline’s husky tone as they begin, “I need you to answer my question honestly before we do anything else tonight.”

Catra’s face wrinkles several times with anger as she struggles to reply. They can see how she wants to roll her eyes and respond with her normally prickly attitude but they give her a hard, stern look forcing her to take the request seriously.

“No. I’m not.”

They continue to pin her with the look.

She forces a breath out of her nose, her ears drop, “I’m not thinking about killing myself. Happy?”

“Not particularly no. You have to understand that ‘I would have been better off in an empty void of nothing’ sounds an awful lot like ‘I would have been better off dead.’” They refuse to let her look away, holding her head in place with the hand on her cheek and shifting when she tries to avoid eye contact. “Especially when you make it sound like you will do it again.”

“I’m just tired.” She snaps back.

“I know you are, and to be honest, you have a right to be.” They concede that point, “But,” their tail flicks, brushing against her bare side, “tired is something you can fix, dead is not.”

They can see the anger rise and die just as quickly in her eyes. She nods into their hand, remaining quiet.

The blue and gold eyes focus completely on them, whether because they have forced her to or by her own vocation now, they aren’t sure. They take the quiet moment to study her again, searching for their next move as much as they search for hers. Her eyes are lost and tired and they realize with a painful sort of understanding that she has been using these meetings to find her way again; to put her back into the mindset she needs to deal with her turmoil, only to get more lost.

They lick their lips and begin, “we’re not fixing any of this overnight-”

“I never expected to.” Her brows furrow with easy anger, but it is less of a lion’s roar and more of a kitten’s hiss.

They push forward, both with words and physically, shifting their positions so they can lean back against the wall and pull her against them. Her back to their front. “No of course not. You expected to tear yourself apart in the hopes you could let go of all the people you care about that have hurt you.”

She doesn’t respond.

“So tonight…” they pause, looking for a lead anything they can dig their claws into to move forward. “Tell me what you dreamed of.”

She glares up at them. In their current position her head rests against their collarbone. “What are you talking about?” Despite her bored, angry tone she doesn’t seem to have enough fight left to move out of the arms now wrapped around her.

“What did you dream of? What did you want to do?” They shrug, “remind yourself what _you_ wanted to do, instead of this.” They lift a hand and wave vaguely in the air before returning it to the comfortable place it had been against her hip.

She gives them an incredulous look, clearly not buying in to this plan, but she begins all the same.

Once she starts, she can’t seem to stop herself. She talks about seeing the world. She talks about Adora and Shadow Weaver. They note the wording she uses as she goes for use later.

As she speaks, they run their claws through the thick fur of her back, and stir a lazy, subconscious purr from the horde leader. Slowly, slowly, her words begin to fade and the purr grows louder and her breathing evens out.

When she is well and truly asleep, curled against them, they hesitantly take their true form. The feeling of fur against bare scales is not uncomfortable but more intimate than they had expected. When they look up, they can see their reflection in the feline’s vanity mirror.

A spider web of fissures mars the surface of the reflection from where something was obviously smashed into the glass, and their fingers still against a knot of scar tissue that branches out like lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going to hold myself to not watching S4 until I finish this. Wish me luck.


	4. Hello Darkness, We Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Trouble raises a question that Catra can't answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is best taken as a random series of encounters in roughly chronological order.

“Will you…will you come back for me?” She doesn’t meet their eyes, not that she could see them if she tried.

Behind the mask, their brows draw as they consider the sorry sight before them. They know the answer she wants. They know she wants them to say _yes, of course I will_ or some other such confirmation that she has not been abandoned. They are more familiar now with this game of self-deception and her particular addiction to heartbreak, and it digs under their scales in a way they can no longer abide. So, they don’t.

“No, child. I am not coming back for you.”

Her eyes snap to their face, searching a mask that has never given her anything in her life, yet she still tries desperately to read what is behind it. They can almost feel the crunch of her already broken heart beneath the heel of their boot. It is a necessary evil, even if they can taste bile on their tongue.

When she can’t find answers in the blank white of the mask’s eyes, she searches the empty air around them looking for anything, “I did _so much_. I’m not just some second in command anymore, I _run_ the Horde now. I’m _so much _stronger now. Why is that not enough? Just tell me what I need to do to be enough for you!” Wet streaks darken the fur beneath her eyes, and the weight of her grief becomes too much for her legs. The magicat collapses to her knees and she digs the heels of her hands into her eyes.

_Enough_. The word sits sourly in their chest and they must fight to keep their form. They know what she needs to hear and it is not their natural state she needs to hear it from.

“Nothing,” they say simply, kneeling to be eye level with her. They reach out a hand to her face and draw it up, forcing eye contact. The poor feline tries to lean into the hand as she usually does but they withdraw before she can. They are not here to comfort; tonight, is for hard truths. “You have done great and terrible things. Destroyed the world and yourself for others. And none of it makes a difference to me.”

The magicat’s lip trembles. They know she wants to respond but the words are not forthcoming so they continue.

“You will never be enough for me. I decided that long ago. You never had a chance, and never will. Not by any fault of your own. It was _my _choice. You are fighting with air trying to change that.”

Catra’s brows draw together in a confused, sad glare, a poor imitation of anger. They plow on though before she can retort.

“But what does it matter? The opinions of an old woman, in the face of what you’ve done?” They do their best to convey a true curiosity in their words, trying to better understand what strings to pull to help undo the blinders she clings so tightly to.

The corners of her bright eyes still shine with tears, but the question stops her. Behind the glittering blue and gold, they imagine her searching for an answer that is more than the word _because_.

_Because it must. _

_Because it has to. _

_Because I’ve lied for you, I’ve fought for you._

_Because I stayed and gave you what you asked for when Adora left. _

_Because I saved you from Hordak and took the fall. _

_Because I could have died for you. _

_Because it _HAS_ to matter._

_Or I did all of this for nothing._

Her breathing turns into a shallow, labored pant and her pupils become slits of black as her brows knit together.

“Hey, boss.” They say gently.

They sit cross legged before her and reach out, putting both hands on her face and guiding it to theirs so she is forced to see only their bright yellow-green eyes. Forced to focus on them, not on the crisis of conscience that she’s spun into. “That’s enough for tonight, yeh?”

Her breath hitches on the word, and she nods slowly against their forehead.

They breathe, deep and even against her face until her breathing mirrors theirs and her eyes refocus, blinking back into the here and now. Her hands come up to grip theirs and for a moment they think she will pull them away but instead she holds them in place.

Her eyes dart down and away, trying not to look them in the eye despite their current proximity. When she speaks again her voice is low, confused. “It has to matter, doesn’t it?”

They give her a sad, small smile. “No, boss, it doesn’t.”

They don’t know what response to expect. The feline is unpredictable in moments of vulnerability, running the spectrum of stubborn pride filled anger to quiet hurt. They bank on the former, expecting her to lash back and cling to the desperate need.

Instead she silently climbs into their lap and drags one of their hands into her mane near her ears.

They scratch and stroke the thick fur until her breathing evens and a rolling purr rumbles through her chest into theirs, and they glare tiredly into the shadows.


	5. Norms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra asks Double Trouble a question they can only guess the answer to. They respond in kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t go on social media for fear of spoilers. I’ve seen one out of context screen shot of Catra looking just… so tired with subtitles that just say ‘everything is under control’… and you know what? Yup. Everything is under control.  
On with the show!

She searches the familiar disguise, eyes pinched and brows drawn. There is a silent question in her probing gaze and their presence alone fails to answer it. 

“How…” She pauses, restarts after a breath. “How did you not know the Horde was evil before you left?”

The question catches them off guard. It is not from a script they have rehearsed before and they are not sure they can answer. They decide if they are unversed with this situation, they are not unversed with their current muse and it is best to play their obliviousness as Adora’s. They twist their borrowed face into a worried questioning frown.

Catra traces every crease and corner of their concern and comes away empty handed. “After all we’d been through here.” She waves a hand in vague indication. “how could you not know the Horde was evil until the attack on Thaymor?”

This gives them a bit more context. She had told them about Thaymor, about Adora running away, but it is news to them that Adora was unaware of the Horde’s less savory side until then.

They are, truthfully, at a loss.

They have observed enough of the Hero of Etheria to know how utterly single minded she can be in her need to help and protect (it is laughably naïve) the idea she could be a passive party to the internal evils of the Horde is an inherent contradiction. She would have to be willfully blind to ignore what Catra has described to them of their joined childhood.

That thought gives them pause.

A foothold.

“Because… it was normal?” The cogs in their head start turning over the words as they leave their mouth, they sound more correct than they had believed. It drives them to continue, looking their one-woman audience squarely, sadly in the eye. They let the weight of the world their current muse carries settle on their shoulders, letting their whole performance sag with the honesty that comes with exhaustion. “it was never _right_, Catra, it was never _good_. But it was normal. It was the way things were. It was something… something I could change if I got a little bit stronger, a little bit older, worked a little bit harder.” They drop their gaze as they confess to someone else’s crimes, raise a hand and dig their fingers through their hair. It ruins their tight pony tail, but the disheveled blond strands add to the haggard performance.

They anticipate a snarl and are surprised by the choking sound of the feline repressing a sob. Their borrowed blue eyes snap back to meet hers though they are careful to balance confusion and exhaustion in equal measure.

Her ears are pinned back and all the pain she carries in her chest has traveled to her eyes, the tremor of her broken heart quivers her lips. There is anger, they were not wrong on that front, but it is balanced with such utter distraught. “We.” She corrects. “_WE_ could have changed things. _WE_ could have made things better.”

They nod solemnly, let their shoulders lift and sag in a tired shrug.

This earns them the snarl they had anticipated. “Don’t just shrug!” she lashes out, fists her hand in the front of their shirt and yanks them closer.

They hold her gaze, unfazed by the proximity. “What do you want me to do?”

She searches their face as if their world-weary visage will yield answers for her. Her mouth works for a moment and then barely above a whisper she says, “I…still want you to come back.” Her eyes swim with confusion as she is confronted by her own confession. “We were going to do this together…run the Horde together…_Change_ the Horde together,” the more she speaks the more her blue and gold gaze begs them to help her make sense of herself. “I’m still here. I’m where we always wanted to be…I just…need you.”

They give her a sad smile, “you know you don’t.” They gently take the hand twisted in their shirt in both of theirs and push their forehead to hers. Her sad, begging eyes close at the comforting gesture. “You are stronger, older, you’ve worked so hard, without me. _You_ can still change things.”

She pulls away as if she’s been shocked, glares at them in accusation and confusion. “I have.”

They continue to hold her hand to their chest, and meet her glare with a steady, skeptical look.

Before either of them can speak again there is a knock at the door that sounds distinctly like someone trying and utterly failing to be as unobtrusive as possible. “C-Catra?”

The feline snarls and tears herself away from them, stomping her way to the door, and slamming the key pad to open it. “What do you want, Scorpia? I’m busy.”

The other hybrid stutters and promptly drops the reports she’d brought. Catra’s face twists with an ugly sneer as she watches the larger woman fumble with files and apologize repeatedly.

Then the magicat blinks, her back goes rigidly straight; her ears perk forward. She looks over her shoulder at them, now returned to their proper form.

They can see the gears turning behind her narrowed eyes, and they shrug, returning the look with a knowing one of their own.


	6. Shifting Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheels turn, cycles repeat. Or maybe they don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Ok, published the first few chapters. People seem to like it let’s buckle down and finish.  
Brain: no watch S4 now?  
Me: no, we need to finish.  
Brain: but… published... watch now???
> 
> On with the show!

“Before you left… You told me…” she pauses, working her jaw as if chewing over the words she is trying to say. “You said you saw yourself in me… That you wanted me to be stronger and that was why…” she swallows, letting tension fill in the gaps before she continues. “Was any of it true?”

The mask is beginning to itch on their skin. Pantomiming this parasite has made them come to loathe a woman they have only ever seen from a distance during missions. They are intent on cutting the black cords she has wound so tightly around the feline. “Lies.”

She looks up from the spot her odd eyes had settled on to meet their hidden ones. There is sadness and willful confusion in equal measure there.

They recline in the seat they had taken at the small table set in her rooms. “I lied to you.” They clarify. “I needed something from you so I told you what I needed to in order to meet that end.” They deliver their lines as if they are talking about something as mundane as the weather. Her face contorts as if they’ve stabbed her, but they refuse to let her pretend this is some kind of revelation. “You knew that before now, though, didn’t you?”

She bares her fangs and looks away from them again but it is a confirmation nonetheless.

“Why do you insist on trying to justify my actions?” They let their own honest interest seep into their voice as they lean an elbow on the table beside them and set their chin in their hand.

They can see that old broken gear turning and sticking again and again, _because, because, because…_ The more she looks for an answer to give them the more distraught she becomes. Her ears pin themselves back, her arms fold across her chest, claws digging into familiar scar tissue.

They feel their stomach drop. Unbidden the memory of holding her to their chest so many nights before surfaces. The feeling of fur against fur. Her watery voice as she spilled her guts. A million and one pipe dreams that she was convinced would never see fruition. The angry searching eyes.

_How long are you going to keep this up?_

_You never wanted this._

_What have you become?_

“You cannot justify your own actions with my excuses.” They pause before coloring their next words with pity. “you are nothing like me, child.”

Her face contorts into a proper snarl and she hisses openly, whether in hurt or anger they aren’t sure which offence they’ve been found guilty of.

They forget themselves for a moment as they plan their next lines and wave dismissively at the hiss. In their proper form the action would indicate a form of apology, meant to wave away a misunderstanding. In this form, they see her shrink instinctively, anticipating a blow that will not come.

They lower their hand carefully, remind themselves of their current character and the dynamics they must be mindful of. They let the illusion fail for only a moment, letting her see the glowing yellow-green of their eyes. It has the desired effect; her tensed hands relax, her posture sags, and her eyes drift to the hand now in their lap. It is enough for them to begin their cautious explanation.

“You may have taken up my behaviors, using those around you. Manipulating and bullying to keep others in line. Lying for your own ends.”

She grimaces, her lips twisting several times as if she wants to argue, but remains quiet.

They take it to mean they are pulling the right strings and continue. “But. You have not internalized my rationale.” One of her pinned ears swivels toward them in undisguised interest, though her eyes remain on the hand they had raised. “I want power for the sake of power and importance. There is not much more to it than that. My own ends trump all else.” They make an effort to sound utterly bored with their own words. “That is why I had no qualms about leaving the Horde for the Rebellion or about using you and Adora or anyone else.” They shrug and lift the hand she is so desperately focused on to eye level.

Both her ears have turned towards them, her tail twitches and her gaze instinctively follows the motion. She blinks for a moment as her vision refocuses and they let their hand drop again once she is focused on their eyes.

“You are much too soft hearted for that, child. You may want power but only for the safety it brings. You self-isolate for fear that you will care for someone who will hurt or use you again, but no one can use you if you pretend you are using them. No one can hurt you if you hold the power.”

“Shut up!” She snarls, but her voice cracks in the way they know means they have struck too hard against a nerve.

They let the air settle, listen to her broken breathing while she processes their words and her own thoughts. It is a long drawn out moment before she speaks again.

Her words are slow and careful, as if she is turning them over in her head as she speaks them. “I am nothing like you.” She looks down and away from them, eyes pinching. “I don’t want to be like you, I’ve never wanted to be like you.”

They wait out her stilted confession. She fidgets, reaches up and claws at one of her ears. They know it is meant to be a calming action but the pressure and stress-induced extension of her claws draws beads of blood to the surface of the thin skin.

“Catra,” they say her name gently, drawing her out of her head and back down to reality. They over exaggerate their own breathing and watch her until she begins to breathe with them and let go of her abused ear. “your fear is not that you _will become_ like me or that you _are_ like me. It’s that you know you behave like me and it is costing you.”

Their words stir a visible response, her shoulders sag and she looks so tired, but there is relief there. A quiet, breathless, “yes.” Escapes her lips and tears begin to rise in her eyes, “how do I stop?”

They take a sharp breath in through their nose as they feel the weight of her desperation for an answer. What they say will drastically affect the feline they know and the gravitas of their position is in sharp relief before them. After a moment, they lean forward, setting their elbows to their knees and joining their fingers before their mask roughly where their mouth is concealed.

“You make the choice to change.”

Her face twists and she hisses, tears beginning to mat the fur beneath her eyes.

The light flickers above them. For a moment they see the shadows at the edges of the room shrink back.


	7. Shedding Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Trouble decides its time to drop their masks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was three separate chapters that decided to be one omni-chapter. Maybe it works? Maybe it doesn't? I'm not gonna fight the characters on it.
> 
> On with the show!

She sits before them on the edge of her bed while they take up a seat at her small table set. They can feel the tension in the air. They are not stripped bare the way they had been last time but they have come to expect more visceral reactions when she is facing down herself.

Her jaw works, and there are already tears welling in her eyes, but there is a steadfast determination to push through whatever plan she has tonight.

“You… can’t keep this up.” She begins, slowly. Pausing, less to collect herself and more to chew over her next words. “You are miserable, and you hate this. We’ve established that.”

They nod slowly, trying to parse out where she could be heading.

“So… what are we going to do to change?” Talking seems to have dried the tears that had threatened. As if asking the question was less painful than she had anticipated.

They are thrown. Proud, but thrown, though they concede internally that they should have expected the question after their last few encounters.

They let their ears drop, and their brows knit, forcing her to face her own confused glare, “What _are_ you going to change?”

It is her turn to be thrown and as confusion and anxiety duel across her face in equal measure their pride simmers and they realize she had been asking _them_ for guidance. Hoping to hear their advice from her own mouth. It is not the confident stride they had hoped but baby steps in the right direction are still to be lauded.

They wait her out and when she continues to flounder, and her confusion and anxiety become distress they speak up. “Pardon me, boss, but I think you and I need to talk tonight.” They don’t wait for her to respond before letting the illusion melt away so they sit before her in their proper form.

The look of distress is replaced by a look of absolute panic on her face as they completely dismantle whatever plan she had.

They laugh, an easy, relaxed laugh in response. “Don’t give me that look, kitten, I am hardly the biggest bogeyman in your closet.”

The panic simmers slowly into suspicion. “Okaaay… What do you and I need to talk about?” She watches them warily, waiting for a shoe drop or betrayal no doubt.

They smile and reach out a hand to her, letting their signature black and green magic engulf their arm up to their elbow. “Hold my hand.” They instruct, as the cloud of magic recedes, leaving a sword callused human hand and half a white long sleeve in its place.

She is thrown off guard, but the surprise works in their favor. She stands and warily approaches them, before reaching out and taking the hand they’ve extended.

The hold she has only allows them to grip the tips of her fingers gently, as they look her in the eyes. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” She groans and rolls her eyes, the shift from anxious confusion to annoyance relaxes her. Leaves her open to their next words.

“Boss.” They correct themselves, adding a charming apologetic smile to disarming her, before becoming solemn again. “I think… the best place for you to start is to stop doing this.”

Her ears fold and they see the color run out of her face as her fur stands on end. Her hand tightens incrementally around theirs. “Stop doing what?”

They keep their posture relaxed, watching her buzz with anxiety with sad, understanding eyes. “Hanging on to unrealistic ideals of people you know will never be who you want them to be.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her lips curl in a snarl and her hand tightens around theirs. “I’m not ‘hanging on’ to anything.”

“_Darling_, you are hanging on to _everything_.” The cliché rolls off their tongue before they can stop it. “Every time you ask me to come here you meet the person you _want_, but those people don’t exist. They are an act and you know that.”

In their peripheral vision they see her arm tensing and make a concerted effort to control their breathing as she snaps her response, “I know that. It just…helps…” her ears twitch and her brows knit together in distress.

“_Of course_, it does.” They say gently, reaching out their free hand and stroking her twitching ear until it swivels and stills. “It’s a consequence free conversation. You hear exactly what you need to from the person you need to hear it from and get to walk away from it without anything following you. You’ve made great progress addressing your problems. I’m not discounting that.” Their own brows knit together in sympathy. “But it still hurts you and it still hurts the people you are pinning those ideals to.” They straighten with faux arrogance and bring their free hand to their chest. “Let’s face it, no one can live up to _my_ version of them.”

Her lips do an awkward twitch as she fights to maintain her frown but a small, fleeting smile crosses her face at their self-aggrandizement. 

They share the smile for a moment before turning somber once more. “You have an ideal version of everyone in your head and when people fail to meet it, rather than letting them be who they are, you cling tighter to that version.” They lick their lips and square their shoulders. “Just look at my hand.”

Both their eyes move to their joined hands. One still gentle in its barely-there hold, while the other clings desperately, rivulets of blood run down the palm of their hand and along her fingers, turning from red to their natural blue as it drips to the floor and away from their magic. As they’d spoken, little by little, her grip had tightened until her claws dug into the skin of their hand, sticking and hooking in a way they will have to be pulled backwards to be freed or else suffer worse damage.

She hisses and winces sympathetically at the sight and they see her ears twitch again in discomfort.

They speak levelly despite the pain in their hand. “If I pulled away what would happen?”

She grimaces. “You’d tear up your hand getting it free.”

“No.” They level her with a hard look. “_You_ would tear up my hand. Those are _your_ claws, not mine.”

Her scowl turns sad, the anger turning inward and she doesn’t reply.

They lick their lips, turning over their lines in their head, how best to convey their point. “It is… admirable that you can love people so fiercely that you see this ideal in them even when they’ve hurt you.” They watch a drop of red hang suspended for a moment from one of her knuckles before it falls swimming from red, to oily black-green, to blue. “But when the people you love fail to live up to the versions you have in your head you cling tighter to that version.” They try not to wince as she subconsciously squeezes her hand around theirs. “You treat them failing to live up to your ideal as an attack on you, but they were never the person you built them up to be in your head, and they will never be the people you have been meeting in here.” They let their magic swim down their arm, leaving only their hand as Adora’s. “Do you know what would happen if I turned my hand back?”

“No.” She says lamely, trying to force her bullish, stubborn attitude and failing.

They look over their disguised hand, thinking through all the ways Adora’s hands differ from their own. “Given my hands are much slimmer than hers, there’s a chance, you could hit a vein, sever a tendon. Leave me crippled.” They flex their free hand to dispel the discomfort that thought gives them. “In essence, if I were to simply be who I am rather than a pleasing illusion, I could end up even more hurt.”

They hear her take a strained breath through her nose that ends in a high, pained whine when she releases it.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” They ask, returning their gaze to her face only to find she had turned away from them, her mismatched eyes focused resolutely on a spot on the floor away from their joined hands. They see her unoccupied hand flexing, and how hard she is resisting her instinct to hold herself.

They run their free hand along the back of her arm and then settle it on the spot on her ribs, places they know from memory are decorated with spots of scar tissue. “You do it to yourself too. Hold on tight to who you think you want to be, try to claw out the imperfections that leave you vulnerable.”

She gives a weak hiss, that reminds them of an abandon kitten facing down a much larger predator. Around their hand hers trembles and they pause, biting their tongue to keep from alerting her to the pain she’s unintentionally causing. They wait her out, watch her ear twitch and swivel towards them then a moment later she looks hesitantly out of the corner of her eye at them. They can see all the nerves they are hitting in the glittering of the tears in her eyes, but the focus of the blue and gold gaze and the fierceness in her silence tells them they have her full attention.

They return their free hand to her shoulder and run their long fingers down to her unoccupied hand, coaxing it open. “When you let the people around you be who they are instead of who you want them to be,” they begin, mimicking the grip of their other hand, “you give them the ability to adjust, and change,” they shift their hold several times, “And you allow yourself not to be stuck, fixated on someone who is not real.” They twine their fingers with hers and squeeze gently. Though her claws extend and brush the back of their hand, the hold prevents her from being able to dig in.

They both focus on their joined hands now. The one pair, bleeding, her claws so resolutely dug in, while their fingers barely grasp hers, and the other, mutually joined and somehow held just as tight.

The long moment of silence draws on, until she finally breaks it, her voice lame as she says, “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“I know, I would very much like my hand back, kitten.” They reply, giving her a pained smile. “but I need you to let go.”

She looks up at them, narrowing her eyes. Behind the blue and gold, they see the gears turning. “you are still hurt no matter how you get your hand back.” She points out.

They bring their uninjured, joined hands to her cheek and nod. “I will be, because you held on to the illusion, I am already hurt. But it will hurt much less if you let go, than if I try to take my hand back or if I try to shed the illusion myself.”

Her ears and eyes drop as she considers the words. Then, carefully, she extends her fingers one by one pulling her claws free of their hand trying to cause as little additional harm as possible. They can’t stop the sigh of relief as the sting of her claws is removed and the illusion drops away fully. Though the pain remains it is significantly less now.

“Come on.” Her voice is still listless and low, as she drags them by their other still linked hands to her joined bathroom and retrieves a first aid kit from beneath the sink.

They let her wash and bandage the wounds and another long silence follows.

“What if…” she starts, not looking at them. “What if… I do let go… and… the other person doesn’t let me help them…?” She indicates the bandages on their hand.

They hide their pleasure that she is using their analogy with a sad, understanding smile. “Once you let go, it is up to the person you hurt whether you get to take their hand again.”

Her eyes move to their face and her ears swivel towards them. There is a desperate, pleading look in her eyes and they know what she wants to hear and the longer they draw their pause the more desperate the look becomes.

“No one is obligated to let you fix your mistakes.” They say, dropping their smile and looking her in the eye, refusing to give her a comforting lie. “No one is under the obligation to forgive you when you wrong them even if you apologize and try to fix it.”

Her lips curl in an ugly pained wince and they let their smile return. “But you are also under no obligation to feel guilty for a mistake you've tried to fix that other people do not forgive you for. The only thing you _are_ obligated to do is learn how not to do it again.”

She looks away from them and doesn’t respond and for a moment they fear the whole conversation will end as a wash with her throwing up a defensive wall, refusing to accept what they’ve said.

Until she hesitantly squeezes their uninjured hand. Her claws scratch gently against the back of their hand, but are far from breaking skin.

They grin to themselves and squeeze back.

Her face becomes resolute and they follow her gaze curiously, only to find she is staring into her mirror. The spider web of cracks is gone having been fixed at some point since their last encounter. The unbroken reflection stares back with the same resolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got one more chapter planned for this (then I can start S4). I've written a few more that got shelved or nixed for one reason or another, but I might add them as 'bonus' chapters after some cleaning up. We'll see.


	8. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun rises on a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, I can finally start S4.
> 
> On with the show!

Catra has perched herself on a railing, overlooking the vast steel necropolis that is the Fright Zone. Her fur is lit burnt red-orange from the morning glow of the smog filled air. Behind her is one of the only significant people in her life that she has never asked Trouble to duplicate.

“Scorpia.” Her voice is tired and strained, as she makes a concerted effort to sound as nonthreatening as possible.

“Ha-ha-ha hey, Catra,” The metal platform creaks unhappily as the larger woman moves to the railing and mismatched eyes slide to the arachnid-hybrid. It’s obvious, with every inch of her being that Scorpia is intensely uncomfortable. Despite being physically more imposing she looks for all the world like she is facing an apex predator and she does not hide it well.

It stirs warring reactions in the magicat. One side of her wants to lash out in visceral offense, while the other is utterly ashamed. She swallows them both and breathes a controlled breath from her nose and looks out at the sea of orange again to compose her thoughts. When she speaks, she keeps her voice level, despite the shakiness she feels inside. “I have some things I need to say, and…you don’t have to respond right away, if you need to think about it or whatever.” She can feel the instinctive prickly feeling of discomfort raising her fur and voice but stops and breathes again. This is so much easier when she knows the person she is speaking to will drop the mask at the end and become someone entirely different.

_That’s because it’s a consequence free conversation. _Her eyes focus on a spot where the smoggy skyline burns yellow-green for a moment before dismounting the railing and turning in a fluid motion to face the force captain. This proves to be a horrible idea as soon as she is fully facing Scorpia the stability she had built for herself begins to quake; or perhaps that’s the metal landing beneath her feet shaking with the other woman’s uneasy shuffling. 

“Of course, whatever you have to say, wildcat, I am all ears,” her fellow hybrid’s face lights up with earnest interest.

Catra immediately has to chew her tongue to keep from speaking without thinking. Flippancy will only corrode what she is trying to accomplish. She takes in a breath and mentally shuffles her talking points in her head, organizing them one by one and letting out her breath when she’s done. She forces herself to meet the dark eyes focused on her. “First, I need to… apologize… to you. Since I’ve met you you’ve been nothing but friendly to me, sometimes too friendly, and I repaid that poorly. I haven’t repaid it at all, actually. I’ve been… pretty horrible to you…” she trails off, losing her battle to maintain eye contact and focusing on an indistinct point somewhere to her left. She wets her lips, clears her throat and forces herself through the rest of the apology, “there’s no excuse for that. I can try to justify it all I want but… it doesn’t matter what I say it was wrong and I’m sorry.”

Scorpia jumps to her defense almost immediately, “oh, that’s ok. You don’t have to do that. I know, you’ve been through a lot and been stressed out and-.”

“Scorpia,” her impatience gets the better of her and she kicks herself mentally as the force captain cuts herself off but the irritation gives her enough backbone to look the larger woman in the eye again, “it doesn’t matter what I was going through it was wrong for me to treat you that way.”

The other hybrid is quiet, a passing bird’s shadow crosses her face and Catra has trouble reading her expression. Internally the feline squirms. She feels the urge to run building fast in her blood, the inability to decipher what her counterpart is thinking stirs a familiar anxiety in her chest. She quashes it as best she can and tries to push on but flounders. What comes after an apology? What else was she supposed to do now?

_Change_. The word sounds foreign in her head, echoing in too many voices but her own is loudest among them.

_What are we going to do to change?_

She still doesn’t know how to answer herself. The sparks of internal frustration stir in her chest and she subconsciously flexes her claws at her sides as she tries to think of her next move forward.

Before her, Scorpia instinctively wraps her tail around herself and holds it close to her chest. The rising light around them catches on faint etched, parallel lines all in neat sets of five here and there on her exoskeleton. The weight of it douses the flames of frustration with the cold, discomfort of guilt, and she makes a point to retract her claws.

She remembers the slow deliberate way Trouble made a point of approaching her when her panic got the better of her, and makes a point to telegraph her movements as she reaches out a hand and sets it on the flesh of the taller woman’s upper arm. It is awkward and stilted; she is used to moving slowly to intimidate not to comfort. She meets Scorpia’s eyes again. “I know, it doesn’t mean anything right now… Because it’s just me saying it and that doesn’t mean it’ll actually happen on its own…” she cuts herself off and takes a breath, imagines exhaling all the rambling and circling she wants to do so when she speaks again, she gets straight to the point. “I’m going to change. I don’t know how yet, or if it will make any difference.” Her ears flatten back. “I won’t say it’ll happen overnight. But… I will try not to treat you that way anymore. I promise.” Her last words are sour on her tongue, but they carry a weight that grounds her, binds her to her own resolve.

When Scorpia moves to hug her, which in retrospect she should have seen coming, Catra moves her hand from the other woman’s arm to just below her sternum. Holding her at arm’s length, firmly, though if Scorpia had a mind to it would be a useless venture. “Can we not?” She tries to look apologetic.

“Oh, um. Yeah, sorry, wildcat.” The arachnid hybrid backs off a step.

“See you at breakfast?” The feline offers.

For once, blessedly, Scorpia takes the hint. She smiles a shy, disappointed smile. “Yeah, ok. See you at breakfast.” The platform shakes even after she’s retreated from view.

Once she is gone Catra leans against the railing and looks back out over the Fright Zone in all its smoggy morning glory.

“I know you’re there.”

One of her ears flicks back as she hears the sound of Double Trouble shedding their disguise. An overly dramatic, mock disappointed sigh follows. “What gave me away?”

“There are no birds in the Fright Zone.” She responds, waving a hand out at the chemically discolored skyline.

The railing creaks as they join her leaning against it. “Ah, well, I will endeavor to remember that.”

She looks at them from the corner of her eye. “That was a private conversation.” There is weak admonishment in her tone, but she is too drained to put her heart into it.

“Was it?” They ask, feigning confusion. “Then you should have had it in a more private location. I mean honestly, the very pinnacle of the Fright Zone where anyone could just risk their life climbing up at the crack of dawn?” Their words are teasing, but there is an odd smile on their face that would pass for gentle if it weren’t for their fangs.

She rolls her eyes and sets her gaze back on the horizon. A moment later she feels the brush of their tail wrap around her calf and squeeze softly in apology or support she’s not sure. It is comforting all the same.

As the morning light continues to rise before them, their shadows stretch as if running away from the dawn of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last 'official' chapter. I have a few that didn't make the cut or just didn't flow/fit the rest. I'll work on cleaning them up and add them later as a bonus set or something, but this was my 'you may now watch S4 and get your heart broken cause you probably wildly miss-characterized everyone' cut off.


	9. BONUS: Make Up Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra gives them an intriguing new role.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter? Who said anything about a bonus chapter? Oh right, I did... A month ago...  
This is not the bonus chapter I intended but it was the one that was written. It doesn't really fall neatly anywhere chronologically with the others just another random session I guise is the best way to look at it. Maybe between Shifting Shadows and Shedding Masks?
> 
> On with the show!

_-----------------------

They wonder what they look like to her; what she sees in her own shape swallowed up by flickering black. It is a curious balance, to hang in the middle ground between forms, just enough shape to be solid, left painted with the ethereal nothingness of their magic. A living shadow of herself.

They can feel the tension in the air from more than just their magic. They stand at the edge of a new emotional precipice for her and behind them their tail lashes in undisguised interest. She has asked for this. Described in detail for them their role tonight. They’d been hesitant, following their previous encounters, this is a dangerous territory to tread. To wear the masks of her very real and tangible villains is one thing, but bringing to life her internal ones? While it stirs the performer inside them with that addictive taste of the new and exciting it comes with the price of the unknown.

They can almost see the prickly, static electricity raising her fur as she looks them over.

“_Hey, Catra.”_ Mechanical distortion scratches their throat and reverberates in their chest in a way that is distinctly uncomfortable, but she had been very specific with her description.

Her ears flatten and her lips curl into a hiss that fades into a growl almost low enough to be mistaken for the background machine hum that permeates the Fright Zone.

They give her a vicious, hungry grin that is all sharp teeth. Stalking towards her in a facsimile of her own predatory gait. “What’s wrong, _kitten?”_ They move behind her, let their tail encircle her hips, trapping her. Her breath hitches, and she stiffens, instinctively drawing her hands up to her chest, curling, claws extended, posture unsure somewhere between agitated and terrified.

They purr, despite the discomfort it brings them, if only to fill the quiet. It is an artificial pause they give to allow her to take the lead. From behind her they watch her force her tucked shoulders to straighten, as she steps forward and rounds on them in what is meant to be a fluid movement, but they can see the stilted forced way she holds herself, feel the way her hands shake pushing their tail away.

They let an image of her solidify in a staticky, patchy way, like a poorly recorded video sputtering its way through a single frame, flowing up from their feet to their face before melting into blackness once more. Reminding her of her own end goal.

The sight of herself, buried beneath the ethereal black magic steels her spine and the shaking in her hands. “_You_ are what’s wrong.”

They hide their building intrigue by bristling, showing their fangs in a responsive hiss that whines like a drill as it ends. “_Me?_” The word squeals like metal on metal.

Her sensitive ears fold back, but her posture steals. They can see her strain in the way her muscles pull taut beneath her uniform, in the tremors of her hands, and the barely there dilation of her eyes. Fur standing on end. Caught between the urge to fight and the urge to flee, frozen in place.

A part of them is tempted to call the whole thing off, but a deeper part wants to see her through. After a moment they devise a solution. They drop their head and fold their ears, avert their gaze from hers, curl their shoulders and tail defensively, mimicking all her favorite signs of guilt.

They hear her breathing stutter momentarily, and tilt their head just enough to look at her from the corner of their eyes.

The tension shifts from panic to a painful sort of empathy, as if the sight of her own remorse in her shimmering shadow self is recognizable enough to jar her from her frozen state. Her fur settles as she takes in a breath that expands her whole diaphragm. When she exhales it’s with the sort of resignation of someone who is not expecting to be listened to.

“Look…You…” She faulters, swallows, “I don’t know where to start.” She admits sadly, reaching out a slow hand to them in a habitual gesture of comfort, perhaps for herself as much for their hunched figure.

They watch her for a moment to see if she’ll look for ground but she flounders looking to them for direction. When it’s clear she will go no further without help they straighten their posture and let their magic dissipate into their true form.

She wrinkles her nose unhappily and retracts her hand, drawing it across her chest to hold herself instead as she looks away from them in obvious indignity.

“No shame in needing direction, darling, even the best of us need to be fed lines from time to time.” Their tone is matter-o-fact, as devoid of criticism as they can make it. She’s chosen an ambitious scene for the night.

Her ears flatten and her gaze returns to theirs in the form of a predictably defensive scowl, but it is weak. She has already made herself vulnerable in pitching the idea alone; there is no where for her to retreat short of throwing them out entirely. So, she glares at them and struggles with impotent annoyance.

“What is it you’re struggling with, luv?” They ask, leaning back against the table edge behind them and watching her carefully.

She tears her eyes away from them again and paces a few steps, reaching for her ears as she does before ripping her hands down and away before she can dig her claws into the thin skin. “I don’t know!” she snaps back, tail flicking in agitation as she struggles to articulate. “I’m just…” She shakes her head and they can hear the tears beginning to form even with her back to them. They see her hands come up to cling on to her upper arms, claws digging in. “There’s too much… I can’t… I don’t know where to start.” She finally gives them.

They take a few, lazy, but loud steps towards her to give warning of their approach, before reaching their hands to hers and stroking their thumbs gently over the backs of her tensed knuckles. “Then, we’ll pick something. One thing. First thing you can think of.”

It surprises her enough she relaxes her grip on herself and they pry her hands away from her upper arms. “What?”

Their tail wends its way around her waist and turns her to face them. “Pick one thing and _only one_ and focus on that.”

“I just told you I _can’t._” Her response is somewhere between annoyance and bewilderment, which only compound when their tail raises and brushes away the tear streaks matting the fur beneath her eyes causing her to bat at the offending appendage.

They flash her a relaxed, disarming smile. “Make up you’re mind, that you’re strong enough.”

“That has to be your worst advice yet.” She responds with disbelief, but the harsh cut of her shoulders relaxes with theirs. “As if I haven’t been trying to do that.”

They shrug and step back to give her space to breath and think. “Make up your mind.”

She gives them a questioning, skeptical glare, chewing at her lip as if she thinks. The silence settles between them.

“I… want to. I want to.” She reaches to hold herself again, but forces her arms down. “I want to…” She stills, looking frozen with panic, fur on end, eyes slit and hyper focused, tail and ears erect, but it only lasts a moment before everything about her settles with the sort of deadly calm they have come to associate with her making a decision. Her eyes return to theirs with that hard resolve. “I know what I want to do.”

They raise an interested brow, but nod and allow themselves to be swallowed into the inky black of their own magic. “When you’re ready, darling.” They prompt, maintaining the swimming shadow of their own form to allow her time to reorient.

She reaches up with first one hand then both to scrub furiously at her face for a moment before nodding.

They let themselves shrink and reform in the shadow version of her they’d started the night as and allow her to take the lead.

When she drops her hands from her face the fine fur runs in all the wrong directions but her eyes still hold the decisiveness she’s found. She stands square backed and free of her previous anxiety. “You chose to stay.”

They blink in surprise, but mask it and an intrigued smile with a vicious, sharp toothed sneer. “I was _left_ here.” Even as they snap back their response, they let some of their blackened form take its proper shape and color, in patchy, haphazard pattern, edged with brilliant white.

She takes a stuttering breath and they almost expect to call the night there, but she seems to catch herself. As bullheaded as ever to see her plans through. “No.” She responds, hard and low. “No...” She says again softer, shaking. She loses eye contact but finds a patch of copper amidst their shadowy form and holds her gaze there like a life line. “Adora… Adora left… the Horde.” She forces the words out like they are too large to pass through her teeth, as if it is a chore to say them, let alone believe them. “She… she asked you to stay and you did, and… and she’s asked you to leave… and you didn’t…” She tosses her head, and they see the shimmer of tears being flung from her face in the motion but when she looks back at them her eyes are fierce and determined as ever, even with the gathering wetness at their corners. “Shadow Weaver left to… save her own hide.” This seems to be easier to voice but by the involuntary twitch in her eyes it is no less painful. “She doesn’t care… about you.”

They respond with a visceral, wounded hiss, and more bits of fur and fabric become visible. They know they are perhaps indulging her a bit too easily; these are not massive revelations to behold but they are the cumulation of several, oft repeated scenes to this by now well-rehearsed play. Perhaps it is not for her they are giving in easily.

She bristles at the hiss, but takes a defiant, responsive step towards them. “They chose to leave, and you chose to stay… And… you chose to come back…” A cloud of something shades her eyes for a moment as if she’s remembering a nightmare, they aren’t privy to.

They draw her back to the present by shrinking away from her, curling into their defensive, guilty act once more. “Where else would I go?” They ask. Their eyes are still blacked out, but they make their voice watery, enough to convey a pathetic sort of petulance and sadness at once.

Her ears and tail fall, and her hard look becomes that sad, understanding one. “I… I didn’t say you had to go anywhere.”

Their ears perk in her direction. While they hadn’t been anticipating a specific answer, this one is certainly of interest to them.

She licks her lips, and starts carefully. “You… don’t have to leave.” Her voice becomes surer as she works the words free. “But… You are choosing to be here.” Despite the decisiveness of her voice, her brows are furrowed, as if she is unsure her meaning is reaching them and awaiting their judgement.

They weigh her words, parsing them through in their head. She is clawing her way to an epiphany she doesn’t have the language for. They speak carefully when they respond. “I am the reason I am still here, but I am not the reason they left.”

Her next breath is not one of relief but something like it. She nods, and her voice waivers when she speaks again. “And… Since they…left. Since they chose to leave, they. They don’t get to have a say in, what you do. Only… you do.”

They nod slowly. Straightening just a bit, shedding their defensiveness inch by inch with their shadow. Though they keep their shoulders tucked, they are mostly her, but for their right arm and the right side of their face. They maintain a wary, skeptical eye on her.

She takes a slow step towards them, and reaches a shaking hand out, cupping the left side of their face in her hand. They cautiously lean their head into the touch.

She gives them a rueful smile that they aren’t expecting. “I need you to make up your mind then.” They would scowl at her for throwing their words back at them if it didn’t feel like it would ruin a pivotal moment. “She’s not… They’re not here. They don’t get to decide.” She strokes her thumb under their eye. “You need to choose… to do better.”

It is perhaps not the most eloquent of reprisals, it is messy and still desperately in need of refinement but, they shed the last of the ethereal black of their magic and straighten to face her and look her in the eye. They hold her gaze levelly and speak, with her weak, unsure tone. “Do you think I can?”

Oh.

That was perhaps a touch too much.

Her ears shoot up, and immediately fold. Her eyes widen in surprise and panic, and all her hard-earned assuredness flies from her face.

Her voice faulters in her mouth, broken syllables trying to answer. It seems its now that she realizes the hand on their cheek and snatches it away as if… As if she might hurt them if she leaves it too long.

They shed their disguise in an instant, standing before her as themselves once more and gently taking the hand she had pulled away in their own. “My apologies, that was over the line. I-”

“Do… Do you think I can?” Her wide panicked eyes find theirs, the terrified look on her face more vulnerable than any time before.

“Do I think you can what, darling?” Her rushed words stall their own and they have to backpedal before understanding what she is asking.

“Do you think I can-?”

They cut her off, “Of course you can, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Make up your mind that you're strong enough  
Make up your mind  
Let the truth be revealed  
Admit what you've lost  
And live with the cost  
At times it does hurt to be healed"  
Make Up Your Mind/Catch Me I'm Falling- Next to Normal
> 
> Perhaps I could have done better with this, but the longer I stared at it the less it was getting written.  
The next chapter is a behind the scenes/extended author's note/mindless ramble by yours truely, so read it or ignore it as you will.  
Hope you enjoyed it, this has been:  
Catra's Emotional Support Lizard


	10. BONUS BONUS CHAPTER?! Behind the Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extended author's note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was mostly written and edited when I was very tired so, probably a garbage heap/ramble but whatever!
> 
> On with the show!

So, think of this as kindof a ‘Behind the Scenes’ if you will. I don’t have a lot of interactions with other people in a lot of my fandoms, very little in the way of social media and the like (by choice to a great extent but still gets lonely). So I figured there was a lot I wanted to do with/say about this fic and figured fuck it I’ll toss it up in a bonus chapter, and y’all can ignore it, or read it, or respond to it, what have you at your own discretion.

**The background and development**:

I started writing this pretty much the day of if not within a few days of DT’s announcement. I don’t know if it was them or if it was a vibe I got from Tobia, but my immediate impression upon seeing them was ‘here is Catra’s Elder Gay ™’. Just an instant here is the character that will somehow call Catra on her shit in a way that she’ll listen (In a way I was right, I guess?). Within that time was when a bit of fan art and a few stories popped up with the ‘DT becomes Adora for Catra’ stuff and I was kinda on board with it cause yeh it made sense, but I also felt like, eh. Like yeh that’s the go-to but what if not that? And I sat down and asked myself ok, we have a shapeshifting character who seems to be established as going to be close to Catra this coming season, what beyond espionage would be a thing that could be used for? And from there this other question popped up, that is an extension of my own preferred coping technique (writing letters):

If Catra could sit down and have a conversation in a vacuum with anyone in the world, no fighting, no external consequences, just sit-down, talk, done. Who would she talk to and by extension what about?

And my first thoughts were Shadow Weaver, herself, and Entrapta. Weird as shit right? I felt like the end of season three Catra would let her relationship with Adora settle (hopefully ruminate on things a bit), so while I thought eventually Adora would be on the list she wasn’t the immediate one. Scorpia would have made the list but at the point in her development I was thinking of she very much was still in the like Scorpia is Scorpia, what do I need to work out with her?’ phase. And from a character perspective, up until S4 Hordak wasn’t a person as much as a figurehead/monolith in Catra’s life, if that makes sense.

I started thinking over how the vacuum conversations would go and at first I kept getting the same sort of answers as a lot of people making the DT as Adora stuff did: that Catra would push for an unrealistic fantasy interaction were things would be what she wanted. In the case of the three characters I planned on centering on, Shadow Weaver would be proud, and genuinely affectionate without ulterior motive, and Entrapta would forgive her for her own panicked reflex, and potentially she would have a bit more verbal/tangible self-awareness talking to herself.

I am a sucker for the tension and the drama and the heartbreak, don’t get me wrong, and the angst of Catra knowingly subjecting herself to the unrealistic fantasy only to walk away and have to deal with reality. As a writer and consumer of media, all of that is a massive heartbreaking delight. But two thoughts came together, with that #1, an Elder Gay™ would not allow a Baby Gay™ to do that to themselves, and #2 the only thing I knew about DT (beyond NB, shapeshifting, merc) was that they took their rolls seriously, and hated to break character. What would be more character breaking than a genuinely caring Shadow Weaver?

I largely wrote chapters simultaneously, with at least one chapter going with each character at a time. The normal equation was ‘DT is [Character], they are playing them [true/fantasy], Catra is [defensive/responsive], they talk about [issue]’ (ie. CH4 ‘DT is Shadow Weaver, they are playing her true(ish), Catra is defensive, they talk about expectations/self-worth). And then go from there. The problem that arose is pretty obvious, I would finish one chapter or go off on a tangent in another or completely not write anything.

That problem lead to:

No Entrapta Chapter! I am honestly kicking myself after seeing S4 and that dream sequence. I really wanted to do an Entrapta chapter because I honestly loved their dynamic for some reason. I knew Catra was going to have guilt issues as soon as that whole scene in S3 went down and I wanted to have a chapter where she tried to convince herself she didn’t have a choice and tried to convince (DT)Entrapta to forgive her or reassure her she had to and DT responding with ‘no, hold on, this whole thing you’re doing right now is fucked and you know that’. I had a few issues. The first, I couldn’t write Entrapta convincingly, which meant DT couldn’t play her convincingly (granted they have never _met_ Entrapta and would have had to glean her personality from recordings so inconsistencies of character could have been excused but still). The second, the premise of the chapter kept fighting me. I couldn’t think of a different angle to go at an Entrapta chapter from that didn’t involve guilt and Catra trying (and failing) through an apology/dealing with the fact that she really doesn’t deserve the forgiveness she may want (more on that later). So, I just let it drop.

**Chapter Commentary:**

_Ch1: Swearing at Shadows_ and _CH2: The Obvious One_ kinda are what they are. I don’t have anything to really add or tell you about them.

_Ch3: Broken Mirrors_. Oh boy. Ch3. I honestly started with no direction beyond ‘Catra talks to herself’. Thus, the reason ~80% of the chapter was dedicated to Catra literally stripping for DT. I couldn’t figure out how or what Catra would want to say so I had her literally strip until I could figure out how to make her figuratively do it. I really didn’t expect it to go the way it did and I spent a lot of time hung up right before the ‘And if I could leave you behind too, I would’ line. It was something that after the lead up I knew was going to be the next line I just couldn’t write it. I have some personal history with suicide, and hell I had just gotten done with a Suicide Prevention training (more on that in a minute) so maybe it was on my mind and that’s where the chapter came from, but it was difficult, a little jarring to be honest to have Catra come out with that, but it was also the most honest/only direction I felt right going in. Other than the chapter prompt formula thing a lot of these were just going with the flow of the characters and once Catra was stripped and seeing herself stripped all the self-loathing took center stage, and it just didn’t feel right back tracking on that. So, I went with it. DT’s response I tried to keep natural to the scene, was heavily influenced by both the personal aspects of dealing with suicide and by the training I’d just done (ASIST). If that spoils DT’s response I apologize. Also side note/fun fact: I gave Catra a white spot because the genetics for heterochromatic eyes in cats are linked to white fur/white spotting.

_Ch. 4: Hello Darkness We Meet Again._ It was at this point (if not in the last chapter) where to large extent I realized ‘oh shit I am utterly unqualified to write about the counseling/mental health aspects of this.’ Then I thought ‘Well, DT is not trying to be a qualified counselor, they’re doing what their asked and trying to help in their own way but they are just as unqualified as the person writing them, and I’m already writing this way OC so…’. Also, side bar, the ‘you are fighting with air trying to change that’ was a paraphrased line from an incident in my own counseling at one point. Without getting into too much detail, there was something I’ve been dealing with that the individual I was talking to explained was a lot like ‘watching someone try to fight with air. They are sure something is there and they swing and they swing and just exhaust themselves and never land a hit.’

_Ch. 5: Norms_. This was interesting. I’m not sure I’m sold on it myself, but then again my fall back when I question whether I did this chapter justice is ‘DT was answering a question on someone’s behalf with zero knowledge of their perspective on the situation and only the heavily bias perspective of Catra for context. So, of course it’s not perfect.’ I tried to strip it down to ‘What would cause someone who is so dedicated to the greater good/so vehemently against harming innocence/etc to overlook injustice/abuse they would have had to grow up at this point seeing?’ and ‘What would DT know about Adora (from personal interaction and Catra’s skewed descriptions) that could give them an answer?’ There are a hundred answers to the first question so narrowing down to the second. Adora puts others suffering and the greater good above her own well-being obsessively. Adora is naïve and incredibly trusting. So, the solution (or one of) to the cognitive dissonance of ‘how did you not know the Horde was evil before when it was doing bad things that you knew about (ie implied Catra’s abuse)?’ Suffering on the micro level is acceptable when the greater good is being achieved. If the Horde was helping the world and serving people/the greater good the suffering Adora (and by extension, Catra) faced could be tolerated. If not than it could not. That is probably incredibly flawed logic but it was what I went with.

_Ch. 6: Shifting Shadows_. I keep resisting the urge to go back and edit (just little things in this chapter phrasings and the like).

_Ch. 7: Shedding Masks._ This chapter was a nightmare. Like I said it was Frankensteined together from multiple other chapter ideas. There was an Adora chapter that I wrote the hand thing into and fell in love with too much to let it go regardless of it if fit or not, a Catra chapter were they were together going to walk through some ‘how to get better’ shit, and what became of the Entrapta chapter toward the end with the forgiveness bit. I think (myself included) that for writer’s when it comes to redemption arcs, forgiveness is a difficult thing to deal with, because it’s a difficult thing to deal with in real life, right? (Warning personal preachy shit to follow) Forgiveness isn’t something that can be earned, it has to be given and no one is obligated to give it. If you are the party that was wronged, if you don’t feel the person who wronged you deserves forgiveness? Then… They don’t. Your closure/healing does not actually hinge on ‘forgiving’ anyone, it hinges on well… whatever you feel it does? If that’s understanding, forgiveness, etc. If you are the party that wronged someone else, the only thing you can do is learn to be better than you were and offer sincere guilt/remorse for the slight. It can suck, but you can’t demand forgiveness even if you feel you deserve it/feel guilty. No one can or should force forgiveness on anyone. *End rant, where did this soap box come from?*

_Ch. 8: Dawn_. Y’ALL LET ME WRITE THIS AND WALK INTO SEASON 4 WITH NO FUCKING WARNING?!!?!? Y’ALL REALLY DID ME LIKE THAT!?!?!? Ahem. I mean. In retrospect this chapter hurt me.

_BONUS CHAPTER: Make Up Your Mind._ This was (surprise) not the bonus chapter I had planned on. I was going to have an Entrapta chapter as the bonus, but again, I could not get my brain and the keyboard to work together. This one started when I did my full series marathon up to S4. I am a sucker for imagery, and pretty heavy handed at it (see Ch3, and the literal and figurative striping) so when in rewatching S3 I saw Corrupt Catra again, the idea of Catra reclaiming herself from that darkness was one I couldn’t ;et go. So, started writing this sort of as I watched the end of S3 and into S4. There was a bit of a struggle with the decision to have them drop their disguise to help her decide what to focus on. I talked it over with my editor, and the debate was between holding the narrative imagery of her pulling herself from this darkness vs. her needing help to understand how to do that and if that couching took anything away from the narrative. In the end, we both agreed that 1) I’ve already at times let the counseling aspects take center over the narrative aspects, 2) there’s something to be said for the fact that sometimes fuck it you know there’s a problem and need to address it but don’t know where to start and there’s a certain beauty to that narrative idea as well, so I just went with it. I did debate since thematically Corrupt Catra was specific to Adora, like was meant to be a specific visual/character representation of Adora’s insecurities so I didn’t know if using her to play against Catra’s would be appropriate, but in the end I do feel it works, especially given the president that Shadow Weaver’s toxicity and Catra’s poor coping skills combine symbolically in the dark parts of Corrupt Catra and thematically that would also mean there are parts not corrupted yet (no I don’t know what I’m on about). Also, probably fucked the whole thing indulging in my theater nerd side by quoting _Next to Normal_, but I love that musical so not terribly remorseful. 

TL;DR: Cabbage Commander is an incredibly lonely narcissist who wanted to share his thoughts with other fans but is a hermit with no social media.

Hope you enjoyed the fic, questions and comments are always appreciated even if I am an awkward idiot answering.


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